Thalia: A Haunting Encounter (Teaser)

Thalia - A Haunting Encounter - Book Cover

Thalia came to Girona looking for quiet.

A room of her own. A night to remember her body. A little privacy after years of being touched without ever feeling truly wanted.

But in the old pension, the floor above her room is supposed to be closed.

So why can she hear a woman moaning upstairs?

At first she thought it was the plumbing. A creak, a pipe releasing air.

Then she heard it again.

A moan. Soft. Drawn out. Followed by another, higher, breathier, as if caught between pleasure and pain.

It came from above.

She turned toward the ceiling, a finger still inside herself. The sound came again — unmistakable now.

A woman’s voice. Slow, aching, rhythmic.

Thalia’s face flushed. The sounds were too real, too human. She tried not to listen, but the cadence carried through the walls: small gasps, a stifled cry, silence, then another long exhale that made her thighs clench around her hand without thought.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling.

A laugh escaped her — quiet, embarrassed. Someone upstairs.

She thought of the man she’d left behind. How he’d never asked what she liked.

How his hands had wandered like tourists — impatient, distracted. How she’d faked release just to get it over with.

How she’d stopped expecting anything at all.

Above, the woman’s pleasure grew louder, fuller. Completely her own.

Something stirred.

Not just between Thalia’s legs — though that ache was real and still rising — but deeper.

A want. To witness. To know. To be near what she’d been denied for so long.

Her heart thudded harder. The thought of standing. Of going up the stairs. Not to knock. Not to intrude.

Just to listen. To feel closer. Maybe watch.

Maybe be seen…

Her thighs shifted. She was soaking through her underwear — no longer just from her own touch, but from the impossible fullness of that sound above.

She’d crossed the line already.

There was no going back to pretending.

She pulled her satin slip back over her breasts, adjusted her underwear, and reached for the robe draped over the chair — a poor shield for her arousal.

The fabric clung too easily to her skin.

She tied it at the waist anyway, gathered her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. A whisper of composure. A costume of restraint.

The moans upstairs didn’t falter.

They were slow. Certain.

A rhythm crafted with finesse — not rushed.

Thalia paused at the door.

An echo of reason stirred — faint, distant.

This was not her place. Not her business. But she didn’t listen.

The sounds were calling her like a siren’s song, meant for those already lost.